Amor Pietasque [T]
Dec 31, 2018 20:10:32 GMT
Post by Ghostkeep on Dec 31, 2018 20:10:32 GMT
Froakie’s looking for more than just a trainer. It’s a shame, then, that Kalosian children make such terrible partners.
Some strong language & brief mentions of pokémon abuse, though nothing too extreme.
“Froakie, use pound!” the girl commanded, and Froakie bit back a sigh, because their opponent was a gastly, this was their third attempt at using pound, and the situation clearly called for a water pulse.
“You’re kidding me,” he deadpanned, but it was emitted as a mildly-irritated “froakie-kie,” and judging by his trainer’s unwavering expression, she understood nothing that came out of his mouth. Legends above, and he thought Sycamore had promised him someone better this time.
He took matters into his own hands — he had no choice. It was clear that this new trainer of his was an ignoramus too preoccupied with delusions of grandeur to pay attention to basic type matchups, and Froakie wanted this battle to finish as quickly as possible so he could hightail it back to the lab. Dismissing the girl’s cries of protest, he summoned a water pulse, knocked the gastly out in one hit and fled the scene the minute it became clear he was the winner.
“Froakie, wait up! Where are you going? Hey— Listen to me!”
Fat chance, Froakie thought bitterly, and he hopped his way to freedom.
The next trainer sent him back of their own volition, citing his disobedience as their motivation for giving up on him. He was, they claimed, “impossible to work with” and “a pain in the ass,” and even after Sycamore shushed them for their language, they continued to glare at Froakie as if he was the source of all their problems.
“He’ll end up alone forever if he doesn’t learn to listen,” they groused. “Nobody wants a pokémon like that. ‘Shouldn’t even be a starter.”
Obstinate and ruffled, Froakie stared back from the safety of behind Sycamore’s leg.
“Would you like another froakie? I have… a few,” the professor offered, stroking the spines of one of the lab chespin. Froakie kept louring at his former trainer, waiting for them to retreat.
Eventually, they did, throwing their arms up with a long-suffering huff. “No. I’d rather not risk another one of those. I’ll take this chespin instead,” they said, snatching the merry little pokémon away from Sycamore and storming out.
“... well,” Sycamore said after a few beats of silence, hands reaching for Froakie. “That was… something. Guess they weren’t ‘the one’ either, huh?”
“That’s fine by me,” Froakie muttered, leaning into the professor’s gentle touch. “They’re all so… so selfish, professor,” he complained. “They shout and point and give stupid commands… they don’t understand me… they think they know everything when they know nothing at all. How am I meant to work with a trainer that sees me as… as something lesser?”
“I don’t know, Froakie,” Augustine sighed. He was as exasperated with the situation as Froakie was — though whether or not their frustrations came from the same source was unclear. “But we’ll find you someone, I promise.”
“You stupid little shit! When I tell you to do something, you’re meant to do it, no questions asked!”
Froakie flinched, trembling in every limb, and shuffled back until he felt the press of cold brick against his flank. It was his first trainer reassignment in two months and his ninth in four; Sycamore had sworn this one would be different.
He’d been right — but different, it seemed, was more a warning than a promise. Froakie’s skin was more purple than blue and had been for the last three weeks.
“Fro…” he said by way of apology, though it was more to save his own skin than show genuine remorse. Heedless of his pokémon’s regret, the trainer advanced, sneering.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m the trainer round here, not you! I give orders; you follow them. If you dare to even think about disobeying me again, I’ll have your head. Capiche?”
Froakie swallowed the urge to argue his case — he wasn’t built for defence, he was built for speed, and attempting to withstand powerful attacks would only lead to disappointment — and nodded his head, lips pressed tightly together and countenance thunderous.
Hours later, his trainer told him to stand steady in the face of a chesnaught’s wood hammer, and Froakie decided that his commitment to unquestioning subservience was a pointless, self-destructive endeavour, so he did what he’d always done best and ran.
—
Augustine found him in an insensible heap on the laboratory doorstep later that night.
“Oh, Froakie…” he murmured mournfully. “I just can’t get it right, can I?”
His fingers trembled as he worked to soothe the pokémon’s battered body, and he made an internal note to remove Froakie from the official starter registry. No trainer was better than a terrible one, after all; when (if— Sycamore shook the thought from his mind) he woke up, Froakie would thank him for it, he knew.
“... this little one is a chespin — they’re very friendly, reliable little things. A little ditzy at times, and sometimes gluttonous, but they’re the most loyal, protective pokémon around. Absolutely nothing bothers them.”
“Uh-huh,” the girl said, scribbling something down in her notebook. “And that one?”
“That’s a fennekin. Fennekin can be… flighty, but they’re very intelligent and empathetic. If you choose it as your starter, you’ll need to be mindful that unlike most fire types, it doesn’t produce its own ‘kindling’ — it needs twigs to produce proper flames.”
The girl nodded contemplatively. Froakie watched as she and the professor moved throughout the lobby from the banister above; she seemed studious and thoughtful, but she lacked the conviction he needed in a trainer (not that he was in the running for one anymore). He started to turn away until she caught his eye and pointed up at him. He froze.
“What about that one?”
“Oh, him?” The professor studied Froakie for a few seconds. “He’s… not available as a starter. If you want a froakie, I can provide you with one of the others. They’re usually quite playful, but absolutely nothing escapes them. They’re some of the most diligent pokémon I know. What do you think?”
“Um…” the girl furrowed her brow. “I think I’ll just… go with that fennekin, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Sycamore said with a small, sad smile. “Come on — let’s get you registered as a trainer.”
Froakie hadn’t meant to stumble upon the battle — he was running errands for the professor and had a schedule to keep; he didn’t have time for dawdling — but these were former trainers, and he was nothing if not curious about how they’d moved on from him. That arrogant kid who’d traded him in for a chespin still, remarkably, had that chespin, and the trigger-happy, self-proclaimed “pokémon tamer” had acquired himself a growlithe.
That poor growlithe. From the safety of an alley, Froakie observed the battle with eager eyes — despite the type advantage, the growlithe seemed to be losing. A physical attacker, it was completely mitigated by the chespin’s whirling vines; getting close enough to deal damage earned sharp strikes, and distance didn’t seem to be helping it either in regards to dodging — not that its trainer seemed particularly interested in telling it to dodge. It was a particular flaw of his that Froakie knew well.
Pin missile struck the growlithe’s unguarded flank and sent it flying. It wasn’t an effective attack, but the injuries already sustained by the growlithe saw it nearly knocked unconscious by a few spines.
Its trainer snarled, clenching his fists. “Dammit— get up and use fire fang!” The growlithe staggered dazedly, lurching like the lab technicians would after a night of drinking. “And you call yourself a fire type? You’re a poor excuse of a pokémon!”
The other trainer furrowed their brow. “Let’s finish this quickly — use tackle!”
It was over in seconds. Froakie winced at the impact and watched the growlithe fall, reeling from an attack that it didn’t recover from. Irritated, its trainer forked over some of his money and rounded on it the minute the plaza was empty; Froakie knew what came next.
“Watch out!” he whispered frantically, but the growlithe didn’t stir. A smarting kick from its trainer did nothing, either, though the second managed to elicit a pitiful yelp.
“Listen up, runt,” the trainer hissed, “I paid good money for you — don’t fuck this up.”
The growlithe, barely clinging to consciousness, nodded disconcertedly. With what little strength it had left, it hauled itself to its feet, shook itself out, and bared its teeth; its trainer seemed somewhat mollified, stepping back, returning it to its ball and leaving the plaza. Froakie gulped, watching him retreat, and then headed back for the lab.
—
That night, the local news was dominated by the story of a young trainer whose growlithe had mauled his hands, leaving him hospitalised and possibly crippled for life. The growlithe, the anchorman claimed, was to be rehabilitated, given that the attack was being deemed self-defence by police.
“That trainer got what he deserved if it’s true,” one of the lab assistants, Sophie, remarked as she wandered past the television, bagel in hand. Froakie bit back a grin and shrugged.
“Is this the froakie you were talking about?” Froakie blinked. “It doesn’t look like a bad pokémon.”
“He’s not,” Sycamore insisted, petting Froakie’s head idly. “He’s just very strong-willed. He knows exactly what he wants from a trainer and he won’t settle for anything less, but he’s not bad.”
“... is he strong?”
Very. “And fast,” the professor agreed. “But he hasn’t been available as a starter for a long time. Too many bad experiences.”
“Was that your decision or his?” Sycamore glanced away; the trainer grinned. “Look, I’ve been through four regions already. I know my stuff. If this froakie wants a good trainer, then he’s looking at one right now.”
How arrogant. Froakie almost wanted to scoff, but the certitude of this trainer’s claim was admittedly alluring. He hadn’t properly battled in months; the most exciting experience of his recent life involved attempting to round up newborn zigzagoon. If this trainer had the potential to give him something new…
“... what do you think?” Sycamore was asking him; Froakie snapped out of his thoughts and looked up at the professor. “Do you want to try?”
“Kie!” he asserted with a nod. If it didn’t work out, he could always come home.
Everything hurt.
He didn’t know where he was, or what had happened, just that he ached. He felt as though his insides had been fried. For all he knew, they had been.
“… hang in there, Froakie.”
Disoriented, he stared up at the boy holding him, then around the room. They were in the lobby of Sycamore’s laboratory. Hadn’t he been outside?
“You’re gonna be okay,” the boy asserted. The pikachu on his shoulder cooed reassuringly, and Froakie abruptly remembered why he was here. Those people… Team Rocket…
We’ve always stood up to them before and we always will! As long as Pikachu is okay… as long as Pikachu doesn’t give up… then I’ll be right here, battling to the end!
“Froakie!” At the sound of the professor’s voice, Froakie perked up. He struggled ineffectually for a few seconds before going limp when the boy’s grip on him didn’t immediately loosen. “I was— we were so worried about you. I… was just on the phone to your trainer.” The look on Sycamore’s face said it all; Froakie sighed so deeply he feared he might have collapsed a lung. “He’s… he’s not coming back.”
“What do you mean?” the boy holding him demanded; the professor winced.
“He’s given Froakie up,” he clarified. “He doesn’t want him anymore.”
“‘s nothing new,” Froakie slurred unintelligibly, and then he was out like a light.
—
“Hey, Froakie,” a voice called. Dazedly, Froakie blinked open his eyes, squinting at the blurry face of the boy who’d saved his life. “I really wanna thank you for saving me.” Saving him? His pikachu trilled gratefully; Froakie couldn’t believe his ears.
“Pikachu and I think you’re awesome!” the boy continued. Froakie’s disbelief deepened— awesome? They thought he was awesome? The boy was shaking his head slowly, a perplexed smile spreading across his face. “I don’t get it,” he mused, mostly to himself. Froakie felt his eyes begin to close. “I’d want a pokémon like you. Look at what you did! You cared enough to save Pikachu!”
It had been nothing, really. Froakie opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt suddenly, undeniably exhausted, a heavy, fuzzy fatigue blanketing his mind, but the boy kept talking in a voice so soft and earnest it made Froakie want to cry.
“You’re the best.” And Froakie was slipping away, but he clung to that desperately — the best — before he fell back asleep.
Ash Ketchum was a remarkable boy. Fearless, indomitable, altruistic and completely unaware of the ridiculousness of finding all three traits in one person. In the short amount of time Froakie had known him, he’d proved that there was no limit to the love he was willing to afford those he encountered and that he was willing to climb buildings for a pokémon he didn’t know and then leap off of them for one he did.
He was completely and utterly mad.
He was everything Froakie had ever wanted.
And he was free-falling from Prism Tower with nothing between him and the ground but cold, whistling air. He was the most incredible person Froakie had ever met and he was going to die in a matter of seconds.
A part of Froakie had expected this boy to be too good to be true, but he hadn’t expected to lose him so quickly (not that he belonged to Froakie, or that Froakie belonged to him, but Froakie refused to believe that the connection he felt was purely one-sided).
He considered jumping after Ash.
He thought about Sycamore’s potential reaction.
He stopped considering jumping after Ash.
Behind him, Garchomp let out a garbled cry, and he peered tentatively over the ledge, fearing the worst — but Ash was safely on the ground and shouting indistinctly into the shadows.
“How?” he asked Garchomp. She shrugged as best a garchomp can.
“Something caught him,” she answered, and they both sat tight, relief consuming them, until Officer Jenny retrieved them from the tower.
Ash was preparing to leave the laboratory and finally begin his journey in Kalos. This would have been a sweet moment, except he was preparing to leave without Froakie.
Froakie knew he had no claim to the boy, and in reality, he knew very little about him, but what he did know was this: of all the people Froakie had ever met, Ash was the most ludicrous, open minded and unthinkingly kind. The pokémon knew he was recalcitrant at the best of times and anarchical at worst, but something about Ash made him want to follow.
In short, Ash was who he’d been waiting for. Froakie chose him.
And in mere minutes, he’d be out of Froakie’s life forever. That wasn’t something the water type could accept. His heart was in his throat and beating faster than the wings of a ninjask, but he had to do something before he lost the chance to.
He planted himself between Ash and the gates and threw frubbles at the boy’s face to draw his attention down to him. There was a ball — his ball — on the ground between them and Froakie pushed it towards Ash because he wanted this, needed this, more than anything else in his life.
Ash had to feel it too. Froakie refused to consider the notion that he was imagining the connection, that he was delusional and desperate after so many rejections.
“Hey!” Sycamore said from behind Ash, meeting Froakie’s eye, and he looked so pleased. “I think he wants to go with you.”
Ash’s friends babbled about how sweet it was that Froakie was picking his own trainer, but all Froakie cared about was Ash and if he’d say yes.
Please say yes.
Ash knelt and picked up the ball, studying it contemplatively. “So,” he said conversationally, but the excitement in his voice was palpable, “you want to come with me?” And Froakie was already there, already releasing the catch and pledging himself to Ash. The ball didn’t even shake once.
Kalosian children may have made terrible partners, but Ash wasn’t one of them, and finally, Froakie thought, this might just work out.
Reviews/comments are always appreciated! I try to take all constructive criticism into account so I can improve any future writing I do.
Some strong language & brief mentions of pokémon abuse, though nothing too extreme.
Amor Pietasque
“Froakie, use pound!” the girl commanded, and Froakie bit back a sigh, because their opponent was a gastly, this was their third attempt at using pound, and the situation clearly called for a water pulse.
“You’re kidding me,” he deadpanned, but it was emitted as a mildly-irritated “froakie-kie,” and judging by his trainer’s unwavering expression, she understood nothing that came out of his mouth. Legends above, and he thought Sycamore had promised him someone better this time.
He took matters into his own hands — he had no choice. It was clear that this new trainer of his was an ignoramus too preoccupied with delusions of grandeur to pay attention to basic type matchups, and Froakie wanted this battle to finish as quickly as possible so he could hightail it back to the lab. Dismissing the girl’s cries of protest, he summoned a water pulse, knocked the gastly out in one hit and fled the scene the minute it became clear he was the winner.
“Froakie, wait up! Where are you going? Hey— Listen to me!”
Fat chance, Froakie thought bitterly, and he hopped his way to freedom.
The next trainer sent him back of their own volition, citing his disobedience as their motivation for giving up on him. He was, they claimed, “impossible to work with” and “a pain in the ass,” and even after Sycamore shushed them for their language, they continued to glare at Froakie as if he was the source of all their problems.
“He’ll end up alone forever if he doesn’t learn to listen,” they groused. “Nobody wants a pokémon like that. ‘Shouldn’t even be a starter.”
Obstinate and ruffled, Froakie stared back from the safety of behind Sycamore’s leg.
“Would you like another froakie? I have… a few,” the professor offered, stroking the spines of one of the lab chespin. Froakie kept louring at his former trainer, waiting for them to retreat.
Eventually, they did, throwing their arms up with a long-suffering huff. “No. I’d rather not risk another one of those. I’ll take this chespin instead,” they said, snatching the merry little pokémon away from Sycamore and storming out.
“... well,” Sycamore said after a few beats of silence, hands reaching for Froakie. “That was… something. Guess they weren’t ‘the one’ either, huh?”
“That’s fine by me,” Froakie muttered, leaning into the professor’s gentle touch. “They’re all so… so selfish, professor,” he complained. “They shout and point and give stupid commands… they don’t understand me… they think they know everything when they know nothing at all. How am I meant to work with a trainer that sees me as… as something lesser?”
“I don’t know, Froakie,” Augustine sighed. He was as exasperated with the situation as Froakie was — though whether or not their frustrations came from the same source was unclear. “But we’ll find you someone, I promise.”
“You stupid little shit! When I tell you to do something, you’re meant to do it, no questions asked!”
Froakie flinched, trembling in every limb, and shuffled back until he felt the press of cold brick against his flank. It was his first trainer reassignment in two months and his ninth in four; Sycamore had sworn this one would be different.
He’d been right — but different, it seemed, was more a warning than a promise. Froakie’s skin was more purple than blue and had been for the last three weeks.
“Fro…” he said by way of apology, though it was more to save his own skin than show genuine remorse. Heedless of his pokémon’s regret, the trainer advanced, sneering.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m the trainer round here, not you! I give orders; you follow them. If you dare to even think about disobeying me again, I’ll have your head. Capiche?”
Froakie swallowed the urge to argue his case — he wasn’t built for defence, he was built for speed, and attempting to withstand powerful attacks would only lead to disappointment — and nodded his head, lips pressed tightly together and countenance thunderous.
Hours later, his trainer told him to stand steady in the face of a chesnaught’s wood hammer, and Froakie decided that his commitment to unquestioning subservience was a pointless, self-destructive endeavour, so he did what he’d always done best and ran.
—
Augustine found him in an insensible heap on the laboratory doorstep later that night.
“Oh, Froakie…” he murmured mournfully. “I just can’t get it right, can I?”
His fingers trembled as he worked to soothe the pokémon’s battered body, and he made an internal note to remove Froakie from the official starter registry. No trainer was better than a terrible one, after all; when (if— Sycamore shook the thought from his mind) he woke up, Froakie would thank him for it, he knew.
“... this little one is a chespin — they’re very friendly, reliable little things. A little ditzy at times, and sometimes gluttonous, but they’re the most loyal, protective pokémon around. Absolutely nothing bothers them.”
“Uh-huh,” the girl said, scribbling something down in her notebook. “And that one?”
“That’s a fennekin. Fennekin can be… flighty, but they’re very intelligent and empathetic. If you choose it as your starter, you’ll need to be mindful that unlike most fire types, it doesn’t produce its own ‘kindling’ — it needs twigs to produce proper flames.”
The girl nodded contemplatively. Froakie watched as she and the professor moved throughout the lobby from the banister above; she seemed studious and thoughtful, but she lacked the conviction he needed in a trainer (not that he was in the running for one anymore). He started to turn away until she caught his eye and pointed up at him. He froze.
“What about that one?”
“Oh, him?” The professor studied Froakie for a few seconds. “He’s… not available as a starter. If you want a froakie, I can provide you with one of the others. They’re usually quite playful, but absolutely nothing escapes them. They’re some of the most diligent pokémon I know. What do you think?”
“Um…” the girl furrowed her brow. “I think I’ll just… go with that fennekin, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Sycamore said with a small, sad smile. “Come on — let’s get you registered as a trainer.”
Froakie hadn’t meant to stumble upon the battle — he was running errands for the professor and had a schedule to keep; he didn’t have time for dawdling — but these were former trainers, and he was nothing if not curious about how they’d moved on from him. That arrogant kid who’d traded him in for a chespin still, remarkably, had that chespin, and the trigger-happy, self-proclaimed “pokémon tamer” had acquired himself a growlithe.
That poor growlithe. From the safety of an alley, Froakie observed the battle with eager eyes — despite the type advantage, the growlithe seemed to be losing. A physical attacker, it was completely mitigated by the chespin’s whirling vines; getting close enough to deal damage earned sharp strikes, and distance didn’t seem to be helping it either in regards to dodging — not that its trainer seemed particularly interested in telling it to dodge. It was a particular flaw of his that Froakie knew well.
Pin missile struck the growlithe’s unguarded flank and sent it flying. It wasn’t an effective attack, but the injuries already sustained by the growlithe saw it nearly knocked unconscious by a few spines.
Its trainer snarled, clenching his fists. “Dammit— get up and use fire fang!” The growlithe staggered dazedly, lurching like the lab technicians would after a night of drinking. “And you call yourself a fire type? You’re a poor excuse of a pokémon!”
The other trainer furrowed their brow. “Let’s finish this quickly — use tackle!”
It was over in seconds. Froakie winced at the impact and watched the growlithe fall, reeling from an attack that it didn’t recover from. Irritated, its trainer forked over some of his money and rounded on it the minute the plaza was empty; Froakie knew what came next.
“Watch out!” he whispered frantically, but the growlithe didn’t stir. A smarting kick from its trainer did nothing, either, though the second managed to elicit a pitiful yelp.
“Listen up, runt,” the trainer hissed, “I paid good money for you — don’t fuck this up.”
The growlithe, barely clinging to consciousness, nodded disconcertedly. With what little strength it had left, it hauled itself to its feet, shook itself out, and bared its teeth; its trainer seemed somewhat mollified, stepping back, returning it to its ball and leaving the plaza. Froakie gulped, watching him retreat, and then headed back for the lab.
—
That night, the local news was dominated by the story of a young trainer whose growlithe had mauled his hands, leaving him hospitalised and possibly crippled for life. The growlithe, the anchorman claimed, was to be rehabilitated, given that the attack was being deemed self-defence by police.
“That trainer got what he deserved if it’s true,” one of the lab assistants, Sophie, remarked as she wandered past the television, bagel in hand. Froakie bit back a grin and shrugged.
“Is this the froakie you were talking about?” Froakie blinked. “It doesn’t look like a bad pokémon.”
“He’s not,” Sycamore insisted, petting Froakie’s head idly. “He’s just very strong-willed. He knows exactly what he wants from a trainer and he won’t settle for anything less, but he’s not bad.”
“... is he strong?”
Very. “And fast,” the professor agreed. “But he hasn’t been available as a starter for a long time. Too many bad experiences.”
“Was that your decision or his?” Sycamore glanced away; the trainer grinned. “Look, I’ve been through four regions already. I know my stuff. If this froakie wants a good trainer, then he’s looking at one right now.”
How arrogant. Froakie almost wanted to scoff, but the certitude of this trainer’s claim was admittedly alluring. He hadn’t properly battled in months; the most exciting experience of his recent life involved attempting to round up newborn zigzagoon. If this trainer had the potential to give him something new…
“... what do you think?” Sycamore was asking him; Froakie snapped out of his thoughts and looked up at the professor. “Do you want to try?”
“Kie!” he asserted with a nod. If it didn’t work out, he could always come home.
Everything hurt.
He didn’t know where he was, or what had happened, just that he ached. He felt as though his insides had been fried. For all he knew, they had been.
“… hang in there, Froakie.”
Disoriented, he stared up at the boy holding him, then around the room. They were in the lobby of Sycamore’s laboratory. Hadn’t he been outside?
“You’re gonna be okay,” the boy asserted. The pikachu on his shoulder cooed reassuringly, and Froakie abruptly remembered why he was here. Those people… Team Rocket…
We’ve always stood up to them before and we always will! As long as Pikachu is okay… as long as Pikachu doesn’t give up… then I’ll be right here, battling to the end!
“Froakie!” At the sound of the professor’s voice, Froakie perked up. He struggled ineffectually for a few seconds before going limp when the boy’s grip on him didn’t immediately loosen. “I was— we were so worried about you. I… was just on the phone to your trainer.” The look on Sycamore’s face said it all; Froakie sighed so deeply he feared he might have collapsed a lung. “He’s… he’s not coming back.”
“What do you mean?” the boy holding him demanded; the professor winced.
“He’s given Froakie up,” he clarified. “He doesn’t want him anymore.”
“‘s nothing new,” Froakie slurred unintelligibly, and then he was out like a light.
—
“Hey, Froakie,” a voice called. Dazedly, Froakie blinked open his eyes, squinting at the blurry face of the boy who’d saved his life. “I really wanna thank you for saving me.” Saving him? His pikachu trilled gratefully; Froakie couldn’t believe his ears.
“Pikachu and I think you’re awesome!” the boy continued. Froakie’s disbelief deepened— awesome? They thought he was awesome? The boy was shaking his head slowly, a perplexed smile spreading across his face. “I don’t get it,” he mused, mostly to himself. Froakie felt his eyes begin to close. “I’d want a pokémon like you. Look at what you did! You cared enough to save Pikachu!”
It had been nothing, really. Froakie opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He felt suddenly, undeniably exhausted, a heavy, fuzzy fatigue blanketing his mind, but the boy kept talking in a voice so soft and earnest it made Froakie want to cry.
“You’re the best.” And Froakie was slipping away, but he clung to that desperately — the best — before he fell back asleep.
Ash Ketchum was a remarkable boy. Fearless, indomitable, altruistic and completely unaware of the ridiculousness of finding all three traits in one person. In the short amount of time Froakie had known him, he’d proved that there was no limit to the love he was willing to afford those he encountered and that he was willing to climb buildings for a pokémon he didn’t know and then leap off of them for one he did.
He was completely and utterly mad.
He was everything Froakie had ever wanted.
And he was free-falling from Prism Tower with nothing between him and the ground but cold, whistling air. He was the most incredible person Froakie had ever met and he was going to die in a matter of seconds.
A part of Froakie had expected this boy to be too good to be true, but he hadn’t expected to lose him so quickly (not that he belonged to Froakie, or that Froakie belonged to him, but Froakie refused to believe that the connection he felt was purely one-sided).
He considered jumping after Ash.
He thought about Sycamore’s potential reaction.
He stopped considering jumping after Ash.
Behind him, Garchomp let out a garbled cry, and he peered tentatively over the ledge, fearing the worst — but Ash was safely on the ground and shouting indistinctly into the shadows.
“How?” he asked Garchomp. She shrugged as best a garchomp can.
“Something caught him,” she answered, and they both sat tight, relief consuming them, until Officer Jenny retrieved them from the tower.
Ash was preparing to leave the laboratory and finally begin his journey in Kalos. This would have been a sweet moment, except he was preparing to leave without Froakie.
Froakie knew he had no claim to the boy, and in reality, he knew very little about him, but what he did know was this: of all the people Froakie had ever met, Ash was the most ludicrous, open minded and unthinkingly kind. The pokémon knew he was recalcitrant at the best of times and anarchical at worst, but something about Ash made him want to follow.
In short, Ash was who he’d been waiting for. Froakie chose him.
And in mere minutes, he’d be out of Froakie’s life forever. That wasn’t something the water type could accept. His heart was in his throat and beating faster than the wings of a ninjask, but he had to do something before he lost the chance to.
He planted himself between Ash and the gates and threw frubbles at the boy’s face to draw his attention down to him. There was a ball — his ball — on the ground between them and Froakie pushed it towards Ash because he wanted this, needed this, more than anything else in his life.
Ash had to feel it too. Froakie refused to consider the notion that he was imagining the connection, that he was delusional and desperate after so many rejections.
“Hey!” Sycamore said from behind Ash, meeting Froakie’s eye, and he looked so pleased. “I think he wants to go with you.”
Ash’s friends babbled about how sweet it was that Froakie was picking his own trainer, but all Froakie cared about was Ash and if he’d say yes.
Please say yes.
Ash knelt and picked up the ball, studying it contemplatively. “So,” he said conversationally, but the excitement in his voice was palpable, “you want to come with me?” And Froakie was already there, already releasing the catch and pledging himself to Ash. The ball didn’t even shake once.
Kalosian children may have made terrible partners, but Ash wasn’t one of them, and finally, Froakie thought, this might just work out.
Reviews/comments are always appreciated! I try to take all constructive criticism into account so I can improve any future writing I do.
